Murders of the Wizarding Sort
by GINGERWEASLEY2
Summary: "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes, is he home?" London is plagued by mysterious murders where the victims seem to just die, no cause of death or anything. Sherlock and John are stuck. Then an old acquaintance comes asking for help but first she and the famous Harry Potter must tell the Consulting Detective about a completely different world right in the heart of his favorite city.
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks to my BETA (and best friend) CodeNameKittyHawk for reading through and putting in a lot of extra commas **

John woke with a start. He let out a high pitched yelp as his tea sloshed over the rim of the cup into his lap. The noise that awoke him rang out again throughout the flat: _knock, knock, knock_. John sighed, hauled himself up out of the arm chair and attempted to pat his trousers down with the newspaper.

_Knock, knock, knock_.

"Alright! I'm coming!" John shouted. He moved towards the door and opened it to reveal a woman with her hand poised upwards in a fist, ready to knock again.

"Can I help you?" he rubbed his face with his hand in order to rid his complexion of any evidence that he had just been napping in the middle of the morning like an elderly person.

The woman looked him up and down doubtfully, then said in a muffled voice,

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes, is he home?"

It was John's turn to look the woman up and down suspiciously. After all, it wasn't often that Sherlock got female visitors. The woman was John's height or a bit smaller, with long brown hair that was hiding a large portion of her face. The other portion was hidden beneath a long, red and gold scarf that was lifted over her mouth and nose, so John could only make out her apple green eyes. She was wearing a black coat and what looked like jeans. What he could see of her face made him think she was in her early twenties –so why was she looking for Sherlock?

John was brought out of his amateur deductions by a small cough. The woman looked at him expectantly from beneath her hair. John smiled apologetically,

"No he's not in at the minute. He'll be back in couple of hours though; can I pass on a message?"

The woman looked like she was thinking for a minute then replied, "No it's fine; I'll just come back in a couple of hours then. Thank you."

Before John could say anything she had turned and rushed down the steps to the front door. He winced as she slammed it shut; he then picked up his tea back and began to read the paper that he had left earlier. He didn't even hear the sharp _crack_ from the streets below.

**I don't own anything but the plot and the woman.**

**This is my first Potterlock so I'm still trying to figure out the timings. It is about 10 years after the wizarding war so I'm aware that Sherlock is set in 2010 but it isn't that different. This is set before Hounds of Baskerville though. I don't know how old Sherlock is but I see him as about 7 or 8 years older than the woman here but that will come apparent later...**

**Please review! It means a lot **

**Check out my other stories.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Ugh, you would think that Anderson would have learnt to hide his personal life by now. Honestly, if he didn't parade it round then it wouldn't be so easy to deduce." Sherlock called out as he entered the flat. He threw his coat over the chair then jumped gracefully over the coffee table to reach his violin.

"Productive day then?" asked John from behind his laptop.

"Hardly. Another death which the victim seems to have just_ died_; no notable cause of death and I can't seem to detect any source of poisoning. There is the possibility that the poison could be undetectable but I need a lab for that but Lestrade wouldn't let me continue to St. Barts after I called Anderson stupid - among other things."

The violin playing increased in complexity the faster Sherlock spoke. He huffed and let the instrument fall to the floor with a soft _thud_, opting instead to take up his thinking pose: with his hands under his chin in a prayer position. John closed his laptop and sighed. Lately Sherlock had been hung up on recent deaths around London where the victims seemed to just die, with no causes of death to be found. Everyone was confused on the victims and when Sherlock had tried to find out about them personally he was blocked by Mycroft. This had lead to him being very frustrated and prone to playing Beethoven at four in the morning, much to John and Mrs Hudson's distress.

"Someone came to the flat looking for you earlier, a woman in fact," said John. Sherlock didn't make a sound but opened his eyes to stare at the door. A second later three knocks sounded throughout the flat. He turned his head to John, raised an eyebrow and picked his violin back up off the floor. John rolled his eyes and headed for the door while Sherlock plucked at the strings coolly. It was no surprise when the door opened to reveal the same woman as before, John was about to ask Sherlock to come to the door when the man himself called out,

"Don't just stand there John; let her in."

John scratched the back of his head as he awkwardly let the mysterious woman in. Her eyes crinkled around the edges to show that she was smiling beneath the scarf. As she entered, she looked around 221B with curiosity. It was then when John noticed the messy state of the flat: files were scattered around the tables, Sherlock's experiments (that were most likely to do with body parts) littered the kitchen and what looked suspiciously like John's gun was poking out from between the sofa cushions.

"Sherlock Holmes."

It wasn't a question. She looked at him with interest but he had his head turned away from the door to face his violin, plucking at it quietly. She cleared her throat but Sherlock didn't look up from the violin, he just plucked it louder. John cringed at his flatmate's impoliteness and turned towards the woman,

"Would you like a cup of tea Miss..." he trailed off awkwardly, prompting the woman to reply,

"Woodluck, Yvaine Woodluck. Sorry I didn't introduce myself before."

She glanced over at Sherlock whose head had shot up at the mention of her name. John could tell he was deducing her but he could also see that Sherlock was puzzled by something. His eyes had stopped darting around her figure and instead rested quizzically on her right hand sleeve of the coat she was wearing.

"Yvaine Woodluck," Sherlock repeated the name slowly out loud, eyes still trained on her arm. "Long time since those _garden parties_," he said the last words as if he had something disgusting in his mouth.

The corner of the woman's eyes crinkled again and a small chuckle came from beneath the scarf. John looked between them confusingly,

"You know each other?"

"Do I knowing a member of the opposite gender surprise you John? Surely recent circumstances prove that I do interact with them," Sherlock huffed as he made his way towards Miss Woodluck to help her remove her heavy coat, an action that made John do a small double take. "Although I am quite interested to know why Miss Woodluck has decided to visit me. I highly doubt it's a social call; it has been far too long for that. You were always interesting as a child. I can see now you look for my work as a detective. I may be interested in whatever it is depending on how you pitch it-"

Sherlock stopped speaking so suddenly that John looked round to make sure he was alright but instead of finding an injury, he found him looking at the woman with surprise etched across his face. He followed the detective's gaze to find that Miss Woodluck had removed her red and gold scarf and hung it up next to her coat; the loss of it had revealed the portion of her face that had previously been hidden from below the eyes. She had two faded scars on her face that had turned a reddish colour from the cold outside to make them stand out alarmingly on her pale skin. One of them went from below her left temple to her chin and the other from a bit below her right eye to her neck, narrowly avoiding the fatal vein there. That wasn't the main thing that had made Sherlock falter, although it was a surprise as she hadn't had them the last time they had met, but the fact that the scars weren't jagged as one would expect a knife wound to be like and it defiantly was a knife wound. No, the scars were perfectly straight and precise across her face. He found that however much he tried he could not draw his eyes away from them.

John coughed and diverted his gaze from her face. He could tell why she had worn a scarf over them but as far as he could see she still was rather pretty.

"I'll go and make that tea then," he coughed uneasily again and made his way for the kitchen hurriedly.

Sherlock, however, continued to stare curiously at his old aquatince. He followed her as she sat down politely on the sofa, avoiding the gun that poked out and the skull on the arm rest. There was an awkward pause where she seemed to be trying to find the right words to say but after a minute she looked up and started,

"You're right, I did visit you to ask for your assistance," she paused again to see his reaction but Sherlock just looked at her impassively. "My boss needs some help on a, err, case. We've been on it for awhile and now we're at a dead end but then I remembered I had seen your face in one of your newspapers and it said you were a 'consulting detective'. I knew it was you immediately from the picture; you look exactly the same. Anyway I told my boss that I knew you and what you could do from just observing and he sent me to find you and, well, ask for your help." She finished lamely but still managed to look Sherlock straight in the eyes. He slanted his head to the side and seemed to think for a second before replying in a brisk tone,

"No."

"No?"

"No. It sounds too dull; I suggest you get your boss to ask someone else." He rose and headed to the kitchen but turned to look down at her, "I'm disappointed though. I expected something a bit more creative." With that said Sherlock went into the kitchen just as John came out with a tray of tea, he turned back around when he saw Sherlock stroll out of the living room,

"Sherlock-"he was cut off by her voice shouting desperately,

"It's about the murders!" The instantaneous effect was almost comical how Sherlock walked backwards to stare at her with wide eyes. Once she had made sure she had his attention again she continued quickly so she didn't lose it, "the ones here in London, I think you know about them. They don't seem to have a cause of death but the fact of the matter is that you haven't found one because you don't know the details about the victims - about what they are."

"And you do?" John asked sceptically, both men were standing over her curiously. She nodded and swallowed.

"Yes and that's what my boss want to talk to you about. You see there are certain things you need to know in order to help us, if you have reconsidered that is?"

"Yes, fine. I'll do it. When do I meet your boss then? The man who can _explain_ to me, I'm assuming he has some sort of government insight that Mycroft has kept from me once again."

"Something like that," she got up, went over to the coat rack to retrieve her belongings. "I can bring him here now, in about ten minutes, if that's alright?"

Sherlock and John shared a glance and nodded in affirmation. They watched carefully as she wrapped the long scarf back round her face again, unhooked her coat and fled down the stairs with enthusiasm.

When she was gone John turned to Sherlock for an explanation but was cut off by a sound from outside the window. A _crack_ resonated from below and Sherlock's head whipped round to the window. When he looked out nothing appeared out of the ordinary, apart from the fact that Yvaine Woodluck couldn't be seen anywhere; not even walking away from 221B.

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**I don't own Sherlock or Harry Potter! Thanks to CodeNameKittyHawk for beta-ering. Hope you liked. Please Review with anything of the constructive criticism sort.**

**Next we're meeting Harry.**


	3. Chapter 3

The rhythmic sound of Sherlock's footsteps echoed throughout 221B. He was pacing in front of the fireplace over and over again. It had been six minutes and thirty-three second since Yvaine had left them to get her boss; Sherlock had been getting quite impatient. _'Trust him to count the precise time' _thought John when Sherlock called the seven minute mark.

Sherlock's pacing stopped as soon as he heard the front door being opened by Mrs Hudson. The sound o the kettle made Sherlock roll his eyes and sit back down in his chair. Laughter wafted up from downstairs but was joined by a deeper, masculine voice. Then finally, just as Sherlock was going to lose his patience and send John downstairs, the sound of three pairs of shoes echoed on the stairs to the flat. The door swung open, seemingly on its own, and a man walked in carefully holding a tray of tea, followed by Yvaine and Mrs Hudson.

"Honestly young man," tottered Mrs Hudson after him. "I can carry it up myself; there is no need for you to trouble yourself."

"No no, it's fine ma'am. Really, I'm quite used to it. Plus wouldn't want to hurt that hip of yours now" The man insisted, he put the tray down on the file cluttered desk and waved off Mrs Hudson politely.

"Oh you are a dear." She patted the man's cheek affectionately. She turned to John and Sherlock who had been watching the exchange, "Do your best to help this new client of yours; he's a darling." She whispered to them loud enough for the man to hear. John stood up to take over from the stranger who had begun to serve everyone diligently. When he handed John a cup of tea, John could see a faint blush of pink across his cheeks at Mrs Hudson's words.

Mrs Hudson left. Suddenly John remembered his manners and stuck out his hand to introduce himself but before he could Yvaine cut in,

"Sherlock, John this is Harry Potter. Har-Mr Potter this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson." There was a hint of pride as she introduced the man to them.

"Just Harry please," said the man. He stuck his hand out to shake John's firmly.

"John if you will, calling me by my medical title makes me feel old."

There was a cheery nod in affirmation and a chuckle.

Harry then held out his hand to Sherlock but retracted it when the detective just stared at it coldly.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John in embarrassment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grasped Harry's hand in greeting while nodding slightly at Yvaine. "How old are you Mr Potter?" he asked abruptly.

"Sherlock!" John hissed again.

Harry's green eyes blinked behind his round glasses in surprise. He smiled at John reassuringly before turning to Sherlock again,

"I'm twenty- six and please call me Harry."

"Twenty-six?" Sherlock's hands locked under his chin thoughtfully in the steeple position. "You don't look old enough to be head of a department."

"I've err got a lot of experience," Harry gave a nervous chuckle and shared a look with Yvaine. "Um, Yvaine mentioned that you can find out about someone just from looking at them; would you care to deduce me? I'd be interested to see it in action."

The attempt to change the subject made Sherlock smirk, he opened his mouth but John coughed and lent forwards towards Harry,

"I really don't think it's a good id-"but he was cut off by the deep baritone of Sherlock's deduction voice.

"Obviously you work for some kind of security or military firm. Judging by the way you stand and how you surveyed the room as you came in: you are a soldier, or were one at least. Right now you're on edge. You keep looking around as if you expect something to appear out of nowhere. You keep looking at the fireplace suspiciously; don't tell me you still believe in Father Christmas?" sneered Sherlock. He inspected Harry again and then continued, "You've seen a war but there is no evidence of previous injuries that suggest you were invalided out of the army. So there's something else. You're twenty-six yet your eyes look older. Something happened to you at a young age that you can't quite forget." Harry shrugged uncomfortably but kept his eyes trained on Sherlock's as the detective continued,

"How's the wife? She's redheaded isn't she? One – no two young children, both boys. You have a happy family now but that wasn't always the case was it? You mentioned being used to serving so a troubled childhood. Used to serving others but you do it quite naturally, as if on instinct. Also suggests a reason for you being over polite and your need to be liked by people you've just met. From the way Yvaine referred to you using your first name before correcting herself implies you have known each other for a long time; three year age gap means you probably went to school together. Scars you have on the back of your hand and the ones on her face tells me when you were young when this 'war' happened, school age in fact. Just a teenager so too young to be in the army, well legally at least, but you were still fighting something. You've been fighting your whole life haven't you? The distinctive scar on your forehead is nearly as old as yourself. Hmmm, a lightning bolt – unusual. It sets you apart. You survived something at a young age. An accident involving your parents maybe? Whatever it was, it made you well known to certain people. How else would you be head a department at twenty-six?" Sherlock finished with a deep breath.

There was a stunned silence. Harry and Sherlock didn't look away from each other; they were both waiting for the other to say something. Finally, Harry broke the deafening silence with a shaky laugh.

"Blimey," he said running his hand through his already messy hair. "I didn't expect you to be so good to be honest. When Yvaine told me about you I thought you were just some muggl-um, just some amateur detective; I didn't expect a bloody genius."

"Don't inflate his ego anymore; he can barely get out the door as it is." The group, except Sherlock, laughed at John's comment; the tension seemed to leave the room instantly.

"How on earth did you know that my wife is ginger?" asked Harry in amazement.

"Easy," replied Sherlock without a beat. "There are strands of long red hairs on your coat. They could belong to a co-worker but the strands suggest close contact. Unless you're having an affair- which you are not from the state of your wedding ring- they belong to your wife. I could tell you have two young boys from the short brown hairs on your trouser legs. They are the same as the average height of a two year old and the ones on your shoulder of a different shade are consistent with where you have carried a younger child."

Harry laughed again, "Well, Mr Holmes you certainly live up to your recommendation." He looked at Yvaine slyly, she blushed lightly.

"Good good, now that's been sorted care to explain whatever insight you have on these 'mysterious murders' then? _Please_ don't use that use that as the title for your new blog entry John." Sherlock added as John reached for his laptop. John glared at Sherlock and went back to his tea.

"The thing is there is no way of telling you this that doesn't make us sound barking mad but I suppose I'll have to try." Harry took a deep breath and swallowed nervously, "I'm head of the Auror Department-"

"Auror?" interrupted Sherlock and John synchronised.

"Yeah an Auror; a dark wizard catcher." Said Harry with completely serious; he didn't break eye contact with Sherlock.

John chocked on his tea at Harry' words,

"Dark wizard catchers?"

Harry continued as if there was no distraction. "You see we," he gestured between himself and Yvaine, "are wizards working for the Auror Department in the Ministry of Magic."

Harry's statement was followed by complete silence.

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**Sorry for the long update time but unfortunately it may be longer next time. In all fairness it is Christmas and I can't give stuff to my Beta.**

**Don't own Sherlock, John or Harry.**

**Reviews and criticism are welcome.**


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